


For All To See

by drvology



Category: Batman (Unspecified canon), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drvology/pseuds/drvology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not what the world is shown that's important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For All To See

**Author's Note:**

> B:TAS is my favorite Batverse incarnation; it's become my default setting when imagining the characters &c. That established, I think the fic I write can be aptly labeled 'canon & time nonspecific.'  
> → Written in an hour for 60_minute_fics challenge group @ LJ || 042007 Prompt #2 _A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words -- Write whatever you see fit but make sure to include a photograph, a painting, a video, and/or some other form of visual medium somewhere in your fic._

Dick paused in his straightening of the study and flipped the tabloid society section of the paper in his hands, face-front so he could read the headline.

 _Three Alarm Date - Bruce Wayne Squires Farrah Fontaine!_

Last night had been the annual charity ball for the firefighters' union of Gotham. Support the houses, the wounded, the widows and left behind children. It was understandably close to Bruce's heart, and something Dick was perfectly happy to see Bruce give facetime and recognition to.

The cover had a posed shot of Bruce with Farrah on his left arm. They were wearing red plastic fire hats and holding beer steins in the shape of fire hydrants. Dick grinned, could easily hear the mortified and bemused and stifled laughter that probably only he could discern in twinkling blue eyes.

Hm. Al would see it too, before he dumped the rag in the kindling box.

Dick flicked to the charity ball spread, scanned the name-dropping, effusive article, zeroed in on the pictures. A whole set dedicated to Bruce. Bruce and his hot date, Farrah.

These things--these findings, pictures, events, places Bruce was without him--used to make Dick crazy. He'd draw beards and mustaches and horrible tattoos on the super-amazingly lucky dates of Bruce Wayne. He'd read every word, reread every caption, hate it all and torture himself by continuing to plow through to the very bitter end.

He'd stare at the candids, Bruce smiling, the willowy blond or shapely brunette or buxom redhead plastered to every available inch of Mr Wayne. Hands all over, Bruce calm and subtly responsive and seemingly fine with it all.

Dick would wonder. Was that better? Did Bruce want than more than the dark, secret nights they spent, tangled and endless, hungry and urgent. Safe. Maybe he was the only part of their two that needed it so much, that wanted it so badly. Always.

The tattered remnants would invariably find an unhappy end. Torn up and burnt to ash--cheesegratered in the Batcave shredder--crushed by his fists and stomped on then thrown away.

Then possibly spit on.

Dick shrugged and put Bruce and Farrah with the rest of the neat stack in the box next to the fireplace. Let the business report and the real estate sections land soundless atop. Closed the lid and stretched as he walked across the hall and took the stairs, two at a time.

Bruce was in their room, showered, sleepy, naked in their bed. Bruce waited. For him.

He grinned, shed shoes and pants, shirt and shorts, finally socks as he kneed onto the bed.

Bruce's eyes fluttered, opened wider. "Hi." He grinned back.

Dick crawled forward and straddled Bruce's lap. Moved as Bruce pushed blankets away, squirmed until they were lip to lip, cock to cock, skin to skin.

"Hi," he answered, licked a stray drop of water from Bruce's cheek. Nibbled and tasted down to lips, bit and tasted more, more, slow kisses until Bruce groaned, grabbed him with near-brutal fingers, rolled him beneath.

Those pictures--false, all. Farrah touching everything she could, and nothing of what mattered. Bruce's bland smile, one hand always with a drink, the other never lower than the small of her back. Dick didn't have to study them, anymore. Bruce easily fooled the tabloids and society. That was proven out in stark clarity that they believed in Bruce Wayne Millionaire Playboy, never saw or suspected the Bat, the Man. Dick no longer had to take apart every detail, divine the secrets of Bruce's inner universe.

This--hard kisses, the thrust of Bruce in the groove of his hip, the wordless recitation of mine, that every night ended here and nowhere else--was the secret at last he'd realized. Had come to accept. Shared what no one else did or would ever be allowed to--flash and gloss, sparkle and pretense--nothing compared to this.

Held - safe - always.


End file.
